


Medicine

by aaronwarnerisabeautifulstorm



Category: Fallocaust Series - Quil Carter
Genre: Angst and Feels, Hallucinations, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Terrible Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, if you've read this series do i really need to put warnings?, projecting onto others, side Reaver/Killian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 07:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12164328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aaronwarnerisabeautifulstorm/pseuds/aaronwarnerisabeautifulstorm
Summary: “You are feeling lonely, Killian. Killian is lonely so I’m here. I can’t leave because you are sad and you need me, okay? You need me and he left. I’m always here when he is not.”------------Perish dies. Killian doesn't deal with it. Or at least, not in a conventional way.





	Medicine

**Author's Note:**

> Sentences in bold are direct quotes from the books, I do not take credit for them. Also, the fic was inspired by the song Medicine from Daughter. I'd recommend listening while reading.

Your hands are heavy leads on your lap, palms facing upwards, towards you, pale and healthy. If you blinked, you would see the burned, chalked raw flesh, you would smell the scent of fire and decay, you would remember white flames and fading into a void of nothingness. And if you blinked, if you closed your eyes for a couple of minutes, you would picture him. Him standing, him saying goodbye, him prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice, and you not understanding at all, not even a bit, because you were too afraid, too scared, too lonely and too out of your mind to know what was about to transpire the moment he stepped out of your sight.

Reaver went out today. He left you alone again .To hunt, he said before stepping out, his fatigue a mask of coldness firmly attached to his worn face. Although you know better, you know the reason why he leaves. Thinking of his natural aversion to showing vulnerability in front of anyone, even if that person is you, it really doesn’t take a genius to deduce his motives. You are aware that he is not ready to tell you yet, whatever it was that happened to him, that which prevents him from getting too close.

You want to know, you really do, but you don’t push him to talk, you don’t force him to spill his secrets. After all, you too have secrets of your own that you do not wish to talk about.

He storms out of the room every time his lips fail to show the excitement that plague yours; you absolutely do not mention the shadow lurking near you from the corners of your vision.

“Are you okay, Killian?”

There it is. The voice-this too is part of the new routine. He only ever speaks when Reaver is nowhere in the vicinity.

No. You’re not okay. But you don’t say anything; you just sit on the couch hoping that voices that should not be there any longer would disappear once and for all, that his raspy tones that can’t seem to choose on the frenzied manner of speech you became accustomed to or the normal way of speaking he assumed not too long ago, devoid of the madness you used to know, would soon turn into white noise.

Your boyfriend has been gone for fifteen minutes now, and _he’s_ still there, standing to the side innocently as if he has never done anything wrong, as if he’s not guilty of being the catalyst to every tragedy you’ve ever experienced.

“Get out.” It’s what you inevitably whisper in response to his question, unable to ignore him. You are unable to ignore him but you don’t think you can allow yourself to turn around and meet him face to face.

You don’t take a moment to consider that it’s basically impossible for him to physically get out of the room since he is-

“You are feeling lonely, Killian. Killian is lonely so I’m here. I can’t leave because you are sad and you need me, okay? You need me and he left. I’m always here when he is not.” He says and you have to bite your tongue, he reminds you so much of the early days of your becoming, of the times you sat next to him and pitied the man who was left to rot alone in an abandoned city.

For an instant you are seventeen again, and he is the source of confusion, he is the hand that caressed your cheek while your boyfriend’s put bruises on your skin.

“Is that so?” You ask, your throat is dry. It hurts to speak, it hurts ten times more having to address him directly.  “Then why? Why did you do it? If you claim to be the one to keep me company, then why the fuck did you…”

No answer. You hate yourself for the sudden spike of betrayal that you can’t help but feel at his silence.

He makes no sound as he moves but the couch dips under his weight when he sits next to you. Your legs press against each other, from hipbones to thighs to knees and lastly to ankles, and you realize no amount of oxygen is enough to keep you from falling short of breath at the sudden contact. He smells of citrus, of sweat, of tears, of blood, and you want to cry-you want to take him by the shoulders and yell at him, curse him for the pain he made you live, the terrors he fed you for weeks, the switches he did between the man you knew and the remains of a brother dangerous enough to destroy the world (a brother who taught you the meaning of hell, gave you a taste of true insanity)- and after the screams are dealt with, after you’ve vomited the emotions you swallowed like rotten food, you want to shake some sense into him, demand him to explain why after everything the two of you went through he…

“I hate you.” Nails dig into palms until bleeding half moons are left behind on unmarred skin. “I hate you the most, you know. I wish you would just leave me alone, you selfish asshole!”

“I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t even be here …”

“I’m sorry.”

Reaver comes back two hours later to find you in the same spot where he left you. He doesn’t ask about your bandaged hands or bring attention to your bloodshot eyes, and you are infinitely grateful for it.

 

* * *

 

The shadows in the room seem bigger, stronger, harder to disperse underneath the pale glow of moonlight. Your hands are on the windowsill and your head is sticking out the window, itching to escape the monsters laughing softly at your back.

“I hate you.” You repeat loud enough for only the wind to hear you. You hate him for all the invisible wounds painting your body. You hate him because you can’t possibly share your pain out loud. You can’t describe to the guy who needs the reassurance the most all the little things that he did (his eyes, almost black, looking down on you as you knelt and opened his fly, your trembling hands anchored to his thighs, the drool spilling from your mouth as you sucked him and the slaves watched, the disposal of your dignity to maintain him happy, to avoid him inflicting harm on anybody else).

You can’t tell him you were the sacrifice, you were the lamb on his table willing to take the stabs from the knife he wielded. You can’t imagine admitting how you bled under the sharp end, how you cried and you how you begged and the way you lost your head trying to survive the slow burn torture your personal tormentor provided you with.

Hands close around your elbows, applying slight pressure. Not enough to hurt you, hard enough for you to know that you can’t tune him out so easily this time. “I am sorry.”

Oh, his voice. Your knees shake, your jaw slackens and your stomach crumbles, melts in a pile of acid you can feel climbing up your esophagus, melting your flesh from the inside. Visceral as your reaction is, you understand why it happens the way it does: you can tell this, what you’re hearing, the breath on the shell of your ear, belongs not to the man who looked at you with teary eyes and said he loved you; the voice belongs to the man who has hurt you in ways no one ever has before and you are torn, confused, tortured between images of the boy you were once in Aras (the first time you broke, the first time you cried, red liquid seeping out of your ass and the word _cicaro_ a constant echo in your mind) and the boy you are now when you look in the mirror, the one who is you but doesn’t look like you because you can picture him sitting in a corner, pulling at strands of sun kissed hair and singing a broken melody, ~~doing his best to keep the real world at bay.~~

Remembering the chain of events leading up to this moment in time, you wonder if you could ever bring yourself to feel gratitude for the consequences of his actions. But then, how could you? How could you live with yourself if you just simply accepted, if you simply forgave the man who murdered you?

(How can you give reprieve to the person who has been murdering Killian Massey slowly, piece by piece, ever since Donnely, ever since Killian was forced to throw away any notion of innocence so he could brand a combat knife in his trembling hands, prepared to commit the most heinous of acts in the name of emotions he was not supposed to feel.

 _ ~~This is for you, Perry. This is for you.~~_ )

You might be stronger now, more resilient in order to face the harshness of this colorless world, but the things he took in exchange for giving you that strength… No, despite knowing the outcome, despite a small part of you claiming it was for the best, you’re not entirely sure if losing them was worth it.

 “I fucking hate you. Do you have any idea of what you did to me?”

“I know. I… I understand how you feel. I know better than most.”

“Do you? Do you really understand?” You laugh-it’s an ugly sound, it grates on your ears-and turn around so fast you almost get whiplash from the sudden movement.

That familiar shade of blue greets you, and you were right, you are not ready to face him, don’t think you ever will be, but his hands are handcuffed to your arms and there is no way you can escape his intense gaze. Or the downturn of his lips, or the shape of his nose, or his small ears or his sad, sad face. You can’t escape him. Period.

He is shaking his head, the scarce light reflects on his ebony hair like silver streaks. His hair is soft you recall, you ran your fingers through it once, you inhaled its scent once -and right here, with him so close to you, you see the man who threatened to rape you in juxtaposition to the man who spent an eternity with you, a lifetime sitting on a couch, watching movies, whispering sweet nothings in your ear, beautiful murmurs that meant the world to the Killian that ripped his own scalp to shreds.

“You asked for me, Killian. And here I am.”

“I did not do such a thing. Why the fuck would I want to talk to a piece of trash like you?” He shrugs. “You asked for me,” he says “because you know that I’m the only one who truly understands what you went through. Reaver doesn’t. Not even now. You can’t expect him to-to accept it-“

“Shut up!” hissing, like a cat or a venomous snake. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do I not?” he returns the question, wearing a smile that is just as ugly and broken as your laugh. You wish you could spit the words right back at him, you wish you could look him in the eye and call him out on his bullshit. However, you can’t. As much as he is an abuser, you are intrinsically aware of the fact that he himself knows abuse in all of its forms. He is a master at being stepped on; he was taught he was a failure long before you became an afterthought in your parents’ minds.

Moreover, you look at him and still see the man breaking down in your embrace.

That is why you bite your tongue, let the taste of salt and iron cling to your mouth in an intimate hug.

“He doesn’t understand. His experiences, his personality, the way he is, including his chimera engineering… He perceives things differently; he doesn’t function the way you and I do. I wish you could help him somehow but… I don’t think you can.”

“He was fucking raped, _Perish_! My Reaver. How can you expect me not to do anything when he-“

(Saying his name is harder than you imagined it would be, even harder than saying the words ‘Reaver’ and ‘rape’ in the same sentence; the letters rolling out of your tongue feel like acid, the ‘pe’ too heavy, the ‘rish’ is a sob stuck in your windpipe. _It burns, Perish, it burns so fucking much_. )

He is the one that interrupts you, hushing you as if you were a crying child.

“Shhh. Shhh. Killian, shhh.” (Positions reversed. Now he is the one calming you down from your hysterics.) “That is not what I’m saying. I guess… My point is that he won’t get any closure from you Killian, the same way you did not get any closure from him.”

“What…?”

“How did he react when-when Silas raped you? He was devastated _for you_ , he cried because he knew on a very abstract level how much the rape scarred _you_. But did he give you what you needed? Did he stay with you in your darkest hours? Did he bathe you, held your hand and told you were not the dirty whore Silas said you were? Did your pain stop him from going out on a revenge campaign to keep you company during the worst of your hallucinations? Did he realize you were doing heroine?

Or was it all you? Weren’t you the one that, even through the haze of your madness, managed to escape the basement time and time again while he was out, chasing after the truth? Weren’t you the one who discovered Silas’s ruse? In the end, he didn’t save you Killian, he wasn’t your real support. You were. Only you. You saved yourself.”

He continues speaking, he goes on and on and on and you have never hated him more than you do at this moment. Your jaw hurts from clenching it too hard and your hands cling to his lab coat like they would a lifeline.

“What I’m trying to tell you with this is that you can’t help him because your experience and reaction to rape differs greatly from his. Rape for him means something completely different and therefore, how he chooses to cope with it will not be equal to your own way of coping.

Besides… even now you still haven’t…You haven’t dealt with your own pain, Killian.”

There is a frown on his face. There are tears falling down yours. Of course you’re still not over it, of course you’re not fucking fine. It’s his fault, more than anyone else’s, that you can’t be Reaver’s support without being reminded of Perish’s heavy hand on your cheekbone and the painful sting that came right after when you didn’t comply with his demands.

Against your better judgment, against the barriers you’ve built, his words strike too close to home and the only defense mechanism you’ve been taught to retaliate with is rage.

 “Fuck you.. fuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyou. Fuck you to fucking hell you bastard. You know nothing, you….” _I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you_

The next thing you know, there are arms wrapped tightly around you, your face is buried on his chest, your fingers are hopelessly clinging to his back and you’re sobbing so hard you don’t know how Reaver hasn’t woken up yet from all the noise.

But you hate him, you detest Perish and he is holding you so tenderly, so carefully, like he did when… like he has always done…

“I didn’t ask for you.” You manage to say mid gasps-you sound like the little boy who screamed his lungs out the first night he understood mommy and daddy would not be coming back. “I didn’t ask for you, _Perish.”_

His answer is a kiss on the forehead that might as well have been a touch of breeze.

* * *

 

In the morning, Reaver sits next to you on the kitchen’s island. He doesn’t question why you were up before him, he doesn’t ask for how long you’ve been awake. Instead he’s all dry words and lazy hums as he eats his breakfast, and you don’t mind at all.

There are things that are better left unsaid.

* * *

 

_There he is, Reaver. Glorious, beautiful. Alive. He stares at you with intensity, the intensity of someone afraid of even blinking, because they believe the second they dare take their eyes off you, you’d be gone, disintegrate right in front of them. You understand the fear; you know perfectly what he’s feeling. You’re afraid too that this is just an illusion, that the moment you let yourself feel happiness this enchanted moment will be over, and in its place flames of destruction will rise and you’ll burn and burn for eternity._

_He is gentle, touching you, handling you like he would something fragile and you are dazzled for a second, because Reaver’s hands are never careful (they have never learned how)._

_Then, there is darkness._

_Then, there is a flash of blue (blue of madness, blue of fondness, blue of torment, blue of suffering) and the taste of salty tears on the tip of your tongue._

_The question comes to you unbidden, before you notice you’re voicing the question that should not be given voice._

**_“Is Perish dead?”_ **

_Perish smiling. Perish crying. Perish lying near you on the ground, playing Pokémon together. His hands bandaging your damaged feet with quiet devotion. Perish hurting you, his finger poking the open wound on your shoulder, his manic laugh. His stupid stuffed lizard. His feverish lips on your skin. Perish defending you. Him unraveling in your arms and his nails clawing at your cheeks as you did the only thing you could to help him. His head in a bag, his blood covering you like armor. Perish changing, becoming a monster you didn’t know, always forcing you to do things, punishing you for breathing, abusing you, raping you. Quiet days spent in your safe haven, his arms around you, his hands bathing you, his lips kissing your tears away and…_

**_< Are you thirsty? Gosh, you’re bleeding all over the street.>_ **

**_< You’re very cute. Are you a virgin?>_ **

**_< I want you to be my boyfriend.>_ **

**_< I’m sorry, that was horrible of me. That’s not how it’s done. You’ll be my boyfriend though, right?>_ **

**_< I could make you my cicaro, my pet, but I want you to be my boyfriend instead.>_ **

**_< My boyfriend now, good boyfriends protect each other, okay? I’ll fix it.>_ **

**_< You have nothing to be… nothing to be cowardly over now, you’re safe inside. But until your brain knows that, when you’re scared, I’ll be there.”_ **

**_< You don’t know pain, Killian.>_ **

**_< …but I’m okay now, I got you.>_ **

**_< I’m a failure, I’m worthless.>_ **

**_< You’re all I have, you’re all I have, Killian.>_ **

**_< Master came for me? You think? He’s never come for me before.>_ **

**_< I thought you hated me?>_ **

**_< If you don’t find food, Killian, it will be your fault.>_ **

**_< He put you in danger anyways. My Killian. My precious boy. My sweety, who did such a kind yet horrible thing for me in Donnely.>_ **

**_< Someone has to protect you, Killian. Someone has to protect-”_ **

**_< Sometimes I like to watch you sleep… I missed it when we were separated.>_ **

**_< I missed you, Silas.>_ **

**_< He’s not coming for you, Killian. No one is coming for you.>_ **

**_< You’re mine. And it would be in your own best interest to accept that, the slaves’ best interest too.>_ **

**_< I’m going to have to leave you.>_ **

**_ <Are you ready, Killian?>_ **

**_< I love you, Killian. You’re going to be something amazing, I promise you.>_ **

****

**_“Yeah, baby… Perish is dead, I’m sorry.”_ **

**_“Okay.”_ **

* * *

 

Perish smiles; the view he makes is something you might have missed for weeks on end. He has one hip propped against the dusty refrigerator in the kitchen, paying no mind to the possibility of his lab coat getting dirty. A finger plays with a loose thread on the hem of his flannel shirt while his free hand is holding the pair of glasses he wears for no reason at all to the weak rays of sunlight coming in from the window.

He looks all kinds of silly and endearing, which prompts you to press a finger to the corner of your mouth. God forbid he catches you smiling in his presence- you don’t want him to get any funny ideas.

“Say, do you think my glasses’ lenses are scratched?”

You shove a spoonful of dry cereal in your mouth, wishing for some milk to appear magically in your empty palm. You chew for a bit and swallow down the weird tasting food. “Well, it would be strange if they weren’t. After everything that’s happened, I mean. But why do you care, anyways? It’s not like you need them.”

Perish frowns. “Yeah, but then how am I supposed to resemble Doctor Malcolm if I don’t wear them?”

The coughing begins; you almost choked on your cereal. The scientist immediately rushes to your side. His hand is warm as it rubs your back in slow circles and you simultaneously want to keep the appendage there or slap it away. These mixed signals your body is giving are starting to annoy you.

“Believe me, you have the entire ‘mad scientist’ look going for you without needing glasses.” You say once the cereal gets on the right track and is not blocking your pharynx anymore. “And honestly, that guy has nothing on you. Dinosaurs aren’t any better than your splices Perry, at least in my opinion.”

“You really think so?” he asks, his eyes wide. You can almost picture a golden retriever tail’s wagging excitedly in the air behind him, droopy ears on top of his head included. Sometimes, you can’t help but think-he’s too cute, really.

Nodding, you attempt to give him some cereal. “I do think so. Here, have a taste.” When the spoon stops a centimeter away from his thin lips, his eyes cross for a second, staring weirdly at the chips nestled precariously on the spoon, before turning his eyes back on you. He gives you a certain look, and you can’t decipher what he means by it; his mouth twitches as if struggling to decide whether to settle for a smile or a pout, the muscles on his cheeks tighten, his face… shuts down entirely.

Unconsciously, your grip on the spoon’s handle loosens. Two chips fall to the floor soundlessly but to you, the lack of noise is louder than even your own unsteady breathing. Louder than the flow of blood rushing to your ears. Louder than his hand, which hasn’t moved from its spot in between your shoulder blades.

“I…” Perish begins to talk, then he cuts off as if realizing something. He shakes his head. “You know, those are very well preserved” The comment is followed by his fingers closing around your wrist (wow, you’re stupidly skinny) and forcing your hand and the spoon to retreat back where they belong: in safe distance of your cereal bowl. You blink owlishly at him, feeling a little bit dumbfounded at the weird display, the place where he is touching you tingling unnecessarily.

“Do you remember the first time I showed you my kitchen and you were over the moon-?”

“I wasn’t over the moon. Don’t exaggerate.”

“…and you were acting like a little kid because you had never seen fresh fruits before?”

“Oh, screw you, Perish. You make it sound as if I was acting overly excited, which I wasn’t. How many people do you reckon have actually seen ‘fresh anything’ in their lives?”

The obvious distraction hangs between you two, stagnant like the thousands molecules of dust suspended in the air. Somewhere inside you, someone is screaming. But you let it slide. Allow another dumb smile to settle on your face. The mindless conversation continues on. And all the while, you discover the startling fact, that maybe, just maybe, the one you actually hate has always been you.


End file.
